The Coach's Daughter New Release Blitz #IndiGo

Title:  The Coach’s Daughter

Series: Good Sports, Book Four

Author: Alex Winters

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 07/22/2025

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 24600

Genre: Contemporary, Romance, sports, new adult, lesbian, university, running team, freshman, father/daughter relationship

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Description

Hastings’ life is finally on track: a freshman on the Haversham University cross country team, independent, and on her own for the first time in nineteen years, she’s fit, frisky and finally free of the constraints of living back home in smalltown South Carolina. Free to be herself, to dip her toe into the waters of girl-on-girl romance for the first time in her life. And when she sets her eyes on the sultry redhead she sees conferring with their track coach one day, she’s sure she’s found the object of her affections. The girl who might finally take her V-card and teach her the ways of feminine affection, once and for all. The only problem: she’s the coach’s daughter!

Peyton Billings is at her third college in as many years, thanks to her father’s wandering eye, philandering zipper, and fiery tongue. Never one to play by the rules, Dawson Billings has been kicked off every track team he’s coached so far, finally landing him at the small, Division Three school of Haversham University. And, in the process, dragging his daughter Peyton along for the ride. She’s not happy about the move until she spots a fiery, sexy, long-limbed runner one day after practice, never sensing that Summer Hastings will be her undoing, in all the best possible ways.

Excerpt

The Coach’s Daughter

Alex Winters © 2025

All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

SUMMER

“Hubba, hubba.”

Summer Hastings glanced over at her new teammate, Kendra Miller, and rolled her eyes. “Girl,” she said with a droll expression, dabbing her face with one of the cooling towels on the break station by the side of the track. “You can’t ‘hubba, hubba’ every new guy you see.”

Kendra, ebony skin aglow under the late afternoon sun, reached for a bottle of water. “Why not?” she asked, screwing off the cap before chugging half the bottle in one long, sensual swallow.

“I dunno.” Summer didn’t really have a reason for her admonition; she was just tired of hearing Kendra fawn over every male she came into eye contact with. “It starts to lose its meaning after a while, I suppose.”

Kendra paused, nodding at the latest “hubba, hubba” recipient in question, none other than their cross-country coach, Dawson Billings. “Not to me it doesn’t,” she snorted, tossing her empty water bottle in the recycling bin beside the break table.

Summer followed her friend’s gaze to their coach, a fit, lean, rigid slice of man with salt-and-pepper curls, a barrel chest, and three-day stubble who looked to be in his early to mid-forties. She shrugged and trailed after Kendra, who’d jogged off for another cool down lap as their practice wound down for the day.

“Maybe you should have a ratings system,” Summer huffed playfully, nudging Kendra as they ran together. “You know, Hubba-Hubba Level One and Level Two or something.”

Kendra frowned, sinewy arms pumping as they loped around the smooth, red clay colored track, side by side and stride by stride. “Is two higher or lower than one on this rating system of yours?”

Summer chuckled, rushing along behind a series of other runners on the cross-country team, most of them upperclassmen returning from the previous year. As two of the only six incoming freshman, Summer and Kendra had quickly bonded during Welcome Week, a ten-day kind of “soft opening” to the fall semester at small but exclusive Haversham University in quaint and picturesque Briar Ridge, Tennessee.

“I feel like one would be the hottest rating, like Defcon Hubba-Hubba, and ten would be the lowest, like…Ho Hum Hubba-Hubba.”

Kendra nodded like she was actually considering the notion, soft black stubble atop her head glistening in the shimmering prelude to twilight that smothered the little valley they were in with a most flattering auburn glow. “But isn’t a hot guy considered a ten, so…”

Summer grew distracted, motion out of the corner of her eye signaling a “hubba, hubba” of her own as a smooth, sexy siren inched closer to their coach on soft, silken legs so smooth they glowed in the late afternoon sunlight. “Or a woman…” she said so softly she doubted Kendra heard over the slapping of their high-tech running shoes on the even higher tech track surface.

She struggled to ignore the newcomer as they rounded the track for another pass past their coach and the sultry, auburn-haired beauty by his side. But she wasn’t the only one to notice. “Who’s this now?” Kendra huffed as they approached, watching their coach and the sexy newcomer chuckle over something on a clipboard she was showing him.

Summer snorted at her overdramatic friend. “Guess you’re not the only one who thinks Coach is Hubba-Hubba Defcon One, Kendra.”

“Witch,” Kendra puffed as they cruised by, careful to avert their eyes less their ire—or, in Summer’s case, desire—be noticed by the feather-ruffling newcomer and her snicker-inducing clipboard.

Summer smiled secretly to herself, glancing up just as they passed to notice the sexy ginger look up as well. Their eyes locked for a moment, maybe less, and Summer felt the thrill of allure as their gaze lingered that one second longer than perhaps it should have, given the circumstances.

It was Summer who broke it first, looking down at her shoes and nearly stumbling as she struggled to keep up with Kendra, who had pulled a few paces ahead. “We’re supposed to be cooling down, remember?” She forced herself not to glance back at the sidelines.

“Sorry,” Kendra chuckled, slowing her roll and letting Summer catch up. “Little Miss Pigtails got me all heated over here!”

Summer nodded for very different reasons. “Same, girl,” she muttered, the soft, vaguely yearning sound of her voice drowned out by the gentle slapping of rubber soles on track coating beneath them. “Same.”

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Alex Winters is an Amazon bestselling romance author with a passion for holiday music, junk food, cheesy 80s horror movies and Epcot. His stories in the Good Sports series for NineStar Press tend to be sizzling and sweet, with a whole lot of laughs—and spice—along the way! Visit him at www.amazon.com/author/awintersromance to see what he’s cooking up next!

Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Pinterest | Bookbub | Bluesky

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Locke & Co. New Release Blitz #IndiGo

Title: Locke & Co.

Author: E.J. Tett

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 07/08/2025

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 78500

Genre: Paranormal, Lit/genre, paranormal, urban fantasy, lesbian, immortal, tree spirit, leprechaun, werewolf, angel, incubus, addiction, magic user

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Description

Immortal Allery Locke has been tasked with finding the key that opens doors to other dimensions. Find it and hand it over to the wardens for destruction. There’s only one problem—the key is a woman. Whenever the key—Deni—opens a door, it allows monsters, demons, and all manner of unsavoury supernaturals to cross over and wreak havoc. Allery must keep Deni from falling into the wrong hands, because if rogue wardens get hold of her, it will cause an interdimensional war. Can Allery make the impossible decision? Kill her lover, or risk the end of the world.

Excerpt

Locke & Co.
E.J. Tett © 2025
All Rights Reserved

There is no jolt. Or shock. Or sudden, great intake of breath. Your eyes don’t snap open. This is no rebirth. It’s like waking up but not remembering the moment you were no longer asleep. You will hurt, depending on how you went, and you will scar, but you will live again. And that’s all that matters.

The whistle woke Allery from death, but it was the feeling of being smothered that made her heart hammer. She couldn’t move—the new-shower-curtain smell of the body bag seemed like the only thing between her and six foot of earth pressing down around her. No, it wouldn’t be six foot; they must’ve almost dug her out for her to have heard their signal. God, they couldn’t get to her quick enough.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

The material moved against her mouth when she breathed, so she clamped her lips together and exhaled hard through her nose instead. She didn’t dare open her eyes. She reminded herself she wouldn’t be trapped underground for eternity. They were coming. There was nothing for her to panic about.

She swallowed, grimacing at the dryness of her throat. Hanging was not a pleasant way to go but it had been a necessity. The prison guards had told her the only way she’d leave would be in a body bag and she’d smiled.

She longed to be able to bend her knees and lift her arms above her head but if she moved even an inch the earth moved with her, filling the wiggle room.

It wasn’t quite silent underground; if she strained her ears, she could hear a faint scratching of metal against rocks and a thumping of soil.

They were digging her up. They’d know not to keep jabbing into the ground like that, wouldn’t they? She didn’t know how much having a spade in the guts would hurt and she didn’t like to hazard a guess. The noises grew louder, and she could hear voices above.

“…hurry up!” Esme, impatient as usual.

“Well, if you put your back into it…” She couldn’t work out if that was Driscoll or Nick. Driscoll, probably. Nick would be on lookout, listening to the trees, checking for the guards.

The pressure eased on her chest as the soil lifted and she thrashed about to free herself. She opened her eyes though she could see nothing.

“Got her.” Esme’s voice again. “Quick, help her.”

Somebody unzipped the body bag and she got herself out of it as fast as she could. Esme grabbed her arms and pulled her out of the grave. The early evening gloom welcomed her back to the land of the living, and she quickly relaxed—the adrenaline dropping away left her shivering and aware of the fact she needed a wee.

She stood on the ground beside the open grave and brushed dirt from her grey prison uniform. Esme leaned on her shovel, a big grin on her pretty face. Driscoll thrust out his hand.

“Good to have you back, Al,” he said.

“I’m glad to be out of that place,” she replied, taking his hand.

“Did you get the information?”

She smiled. “Of course.” Driscoll didn’t ask for it. It wasn’t safe for anyone else to know; the wardens were also looking for the key, and if she had managed to find out about it, they would, too. Eventually.

The forest was full of unmarked graves; rectangles of fresh dirt nearby the only clues that anybody had been buried there at all. Who cared about a bunch of dead criminals? Allery frowned but Driscoll shoved his spade into the pile of earth and began filling the hole she’d climbed out of, stirring her into action. She took the shovel from Esme and helped him.

“Least they didn’t cut you open to find out how you died,” Driscoll commented.

Allery could still feel the rope burn around her neck. She smiled a little but didn’t reply. After they’d patted the ground flat, she hefted the spade over her shoulder, aware they might have to bolt at any moment.

“So, are we going after it now?” Esme asked.

Allery arched her back and stretched her neck, making the bones click. “I’ve just come back to life after spending far too long locked up,” she said. “It can wait one more day.”

“I’m sure it can,” Driscoll agreed, scratching his moustache with a chewed fingernail. “For now, how about we head home and have a little celebratory drink. The sooner we’re away from here, the better. Nick! Get your arse over here.”

It was always hard to pull Nick away from the trees once he was connected. He stood, palms to the trunk of a sycamore, his forehead pressed lightly against the bark, and Esme went to him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and put her lips to his ear. Allery dropped her gaze with a smile, imagining exactly what Esme would’ve said to get his attention.

“Jealous?” Driscoll teased, giving her a nudge with his elbow.

“Let’s go and get that drink,” she replied, hooking her arm through his. “And get the hell away from this place.” She took one last look at the grey walls of the prison peeking through the trees before turning away.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

E.J. Tett has been writing stories since primary school, some of which still survive in notebooks in her dad’s attic, and wanted to be an author as soon as she realised it was a possible career choice and “pony” and “ninja” weren’t viable options.

Her first short story, Club Freak, about an anonymous woman’s determination to find her husband’s killer, was published by Park Publications’ Debut magazine in May 2009. Since then, she has gone on to write many short stories and poems for various small presses and has achieved an honourable mention in the 2011 Writers of the Future competition. In 2014, writing as Emma Jane, she signed her first publishing contracts for not one, but two novels: Otherworld, formerly published by Torquere Press, and Shuttered, by Dreamspinner Press. She also has two novels published by NineStar Press, one a space opera and the other a contemporary romance. Learn more on her Website.

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The Rivers Will Run Red New Release Blitz #IndiGo

Title: The Rivers Will Run Red

Series: House of Drǎculeşti

Author: Keira North

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 07/01/2025

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 81100

Genre: Paranormal, urban fantasy, dark, supernatural, immortal, vampires, shifters, werewolves, merfolk, MLM romance, found family, nonbinary character, Transylvania, Romania, Romanian mythology, folklore, #ownvoices: Romanian author, #ownvoices: nonbinary author

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Description

In the wake of a devastating attack by a rogue coven of vampires, hunter-turned-werewolf Ileana returns to the ruins of her family home. Believing her sister, Tamara, survived the attack, Ileana seeks the help of Liviu, the werewolf who turned her, and Evdochia, a hauntingly powerful vampire descended from Vlad Țepeș himself. 

The attack is the first strike in a looming war threatening the fragile truce between humans and mythical nightwalkers. With time slipping away and danger closing in from all sides, Ileana and her allies must race to find Ravenswatch, the ancient fortress where the vampire coven is preparing to strike again.

Excerpt

The Rivers Will Run Red

Keira North © 2025

All Rights Reserved

Girl Who Cried Wolf

“When the blood moon rises, beware of the pricolici.”

— From the wisdom of werewolf hunters in Crișana-Banat

“It’s here, I swear,” Luca said. “Just a little farther.”

With a small nod, Ileana said, “Uh-huh.”

Her companion couldn’t see that, of course. He was already charging ahead through the underbrush, so she had no choice but to follow, pulling her ratty cardigan tighter around her bony shoulders. She was all of thirteen and outgrowing her old clothes faster than she could get new hand-me-downs. Whatever survived her nightly escapades usually found its way to her younger sister, Tamara, much to the latter’s chagrin.

Luca didn’t need to worry about the cold. He wore a thick, fur-padded coat that molded perfectly to his slim body. A boy of fifteen, more nimble than strong and taller than Ileana by a head, his hair was wheat-colored and unruly, and he had piercing blue eyes and thick brows that made him look like he was always frowning. Ileana felt a strange flutter in her stomach whenever he looked her way. She wanted him to look at her but also not, and she found the whole thing equal parts vexing and confusing.

Luca was already blooded too. On a family hunting trip to the southern reaches of Oltenia, he’d found and killed a moroi, a risen dead who’d been walking around for so long it was more bone than corpse. Luca talked about it like he’d offed the great Impaler himself. Still, his one kill trumped Ileana’s none.

Despite the full moon crossing the night sky somewhere above, the jumble of branches overhead cast a dense shroud over the sodden, uneven ground. Where Luca moved with the sure step of a journeyman hunter, Ileana had to stop and feel her way around tree stumps and patches of half-melted snow, pushing her long bangs out of her face every other step. Her hair was a dark, muddy brown in the sunlight. Here, under the canopy, it was black, and thick, and annoying.

“C’mon!” Luca shouted from somewhere ahead.

She walked faster, or at least as fast as her skinny legs could carry her. Where Luca was growing like a weed, Ileana was more of the short persuasion. For now, she’d tell herself whenever she looked in the mirror, standing on tiptoe and tilting her chin up.

A soft patch of earth gave way under her foot. With a startled yell, she fell forward, arms flailing in search of something to stop her fall. She felt a sting across the back of her right hand when she scraped it against the rough bark of a tree, but at least she’d stopped herself before she tumbled forward and scraped her knees too. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, swiftly followed by shame. She sniffled and bit her lower lip. Cradling her injured hand with her good one, she scurried ahead.

Soon, the trees dwindled away and the ground sloped gently downward toward a small pond, its ragged edges obscured by a dense thicket of cattails and pickerel weeds. With nothing to blot it out, the moon shone bright, its light tracing sparkling ripples across the water.

Pretty, Ileana thought.

And then, stealing a glance at her companion, He’s pretty too.

Luca was waiting for her by the water, toying with his hunting knife, his hair shimmering like threads of spun gold. He caught her eye and grinned wide, tossing the knife up in the air. He caught it by the tip, then tossed it again, catching it by the handle this time. The blade flashed in the moonlight. It looked like silver. Good for werewolves and basilisks, Ileana’s mind supplied, a rote response. She had her own knife stashed away in her boot, but the blade was steel, not silver. She rarely parted with it these days. Like a real hunter.

“Over there,” Luca said, turning away from her to wave his hand toward whatever they’d come here to find.

Ileana turned to follow the line of his finger to where he was pointing. She spotted a storm drain on the other side of the pond, an old, battered thing with bits of rebar poking through the crumbling concrete. She’d ventured inside a few times over the years. The way was barred by a sturdy metal grill some twenty paces in, but that hadn’t stopped her from pretending she was descending deep into another realm in search of glimmering treasure and forbidden magick. That was all make-believe, though, and she was done with it now that she was well on her way to being a grown-up. Hunters didn’t waste their time with make-believe. They found it, and they killed it.

“What’s there?” she asked.

“It’s a wolf,” the boy said, “and I’m gonna kill it.”

A gust of wind tickled them from the side, poking through Ileana’s cardigan and the flimsy shirt underneath. She stuck her hands deep into her pockets, hissing as the wound on the back of her hand scraped against the rough fabric.

“A wolf?” she said, her eyes flicking back to the drain. “Just the one?”

“Maybe it got lost, I dunno.”

“So how do you know it’s a wolf?” Ileana pressed. “It could be just a stray dog or—”

“Because I saw it, all right? Earlier, when I was…” The boy’s face twisted in a scowl that was more comical than angry.

“When you were, what?”

“Gramma sent me looking for frogs again.” He shuffled his foot.

Ileana snorted a laugh. “So, the mighty hunter went out to whack some toads with a stick. How’d you fare on that perilous adventure?”

“They taste good, okay? And, and anyway, that’s not—it doesn’t matter. I know there’s a wolf in there, and I’m gonna kill it and make something from its pelt.”

“You’re going to kill the wolf with a knife?” Ileana said, her left eyebrow quirking higher than the right one. “They’re stronger than humans, y’know. Faster too.”

“Don’t be stupid, Leana. This is what I’m gonna kill it with.” Speaking, Luca pulled aside his woolen coat enough to show her the revolver tucked into his waistband.

Ileana had seen that gun before, on an ornate plaque above the mantelpiece in Luca’s ancestral home on the other side of the hill. She’d asked one of her cousins to hold her up so she could look at it once, when she was smaller, and she remembered it clearly. The grip was silver with intricate bone inlays, a relic of a time when craftsmanship was still a thing. Luca’s family could trace their lineage all the way back to Aron Vulpe—Aron the Fox—the famed hunter who’d driven the vampires of the Țepeș clan from the hillsides of Crișana-Banat and into the far reaches of the Carpathian Mountains. Three hundred years later, their coffers still ran deep.

“Does your dad know you took that?” she asked, a hint of unease tinging her words. She’d seen the bruises on the boy’s face and wrists more than once.

He flashed her another grin. “I’ll have it back before he knows it’s gone. And you’re not gonna tell on me, yeah?”

“Maybe I won’t, if you ask me nice.” The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind, but Luca didn’t need to know that.

He pursed his lips. “If you’re gonna be like that, you can go home already.”

“But I already know,” Ileana said smugly.

“Then I’ll—I’ll make you something nice from its pelt, how about that?”

“I’ll kill my own,” she said, sweet as it was to think about getting a gift from him. “Or maybe I’ll kill a werewolf and take its pelt. And I won’t do it with some rusty old gun.”

He scoffed, looking her over. “Yeah, right. Maybe in a year or two.”

Ileana bristled at that. Every night, when her family went to sleep, she snuck out into the woods behind her home, Nightshade Lodge, and hacked and slashed until her arms grew so tired she couldn’t raise them anymore, practicing her knife throwing and fending off imaginary beasts. And she was getting good, she could tell.

That was where Luca had found her earlier tonight. “I wanna show you something,” he’d told her, and she’d let him talk her into coming along. Mostly because there was something about him that made her want to punch him in his stupidly handsome face and then kiss it all better. Not that she’d ever kissed anyone before, but she’d read about it in a book, and it didn’t sound all that bad.

The object of her secret thoughts snapped his fingers right under her nose, yanking her back into the present with a startled, “Huh?”

“I said, I’m going. You can stay here if you’re scared.”

“Pfft. I’m not scared. But,” she said after a moment, “are you sure—”

“Good. Let’s go.” He started ahead without waiting to hear the rest of the objection.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Keira North is a queer, nonbinary, Romanian author living in Montreal. They use storytelling as a medium to explore their heritage and identity and strive to be the change they want to see in the (literary) world. When they’re not writing, they like to make music, play video games, and read copious amounts of fanfiction and indie works.

Website | Instagram | Bluesky

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Jack and Gil New Release Blitz #IndiGo

Title: Jack & Gil

Author: Emily Carrington

Publisher: Changeling Press

Cover Art: Angela Knight

Genres: Action Adventure, Box Sets, Dark Fantasy, Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, New Releases, Paranormal, Romance, Urban Fantasy

Themes: 2nd Chance Romance, Elves, Dragons & Magical Creatures, LGBTQ+ Gay, Multicultural & Interracial, Shapeshifters

Series: Jack & Gil (#4)

Multiverse: SearchLight Academy (#11)

Book Length: Box Set

Page Count: 470

Synopsis

Gilbert Sullivan, crown prince of the basilisks, hates his name, but he fears the rhyme may be prophecy.

Rhyme of Longing (Jack & Gil 1): When Prince Gilbert Sullivan meets Jack Sowerby, the new head of SearchLight, his attraction won’t let him stay away. Jack’s need for Prince Gilbert blossoms and he’s unable to resist -- until he’s forcibly changed into a magical creature. Will their shattered relationship ever be restored?

Rhyme of Longing (Jack & Gil 2)

Jack is falling apart, but no one seems to notice. As Jack withdraws, the tide of war rises. Jack must find a way to regain his strength and determination or SearchLight will fall. And he’s convinced he must do it alone.

Rhyme of Love (Jack & Gil 3)

Gil struggles to hide his loss of status from Jack, but when he finally confesses, Jack blurts out his secret. Jack knows he screwed up. Well, almost. Running the risk of losing Gil, Jack must learn to lie convincingly, or he’ll lose SearchLight, his life, and Gil, as well.

Excerpt

Jack & Gil

Emily Carrington

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2025 Emily Carrington

Excerpt from Rhyme of Longing

Jack wanted so badly to be done with this night that he felt uncomfortable in his skin. That was not the proper way to begin thinking about his sixty-eighth birthday, his five-year anniversary as the head of SearchLight Academy. This was a party for both those things but no one said “no” to Agent Weinberg.

Not necessarily the most powerful magical being in the world, she was still the head of the entire organization. Even though she held the nominal title of “head of Public Relations,” SearchLight’s whole reason for existing was to protect the relationship between magical and nonmagical peoples. Which was, of course, officially, no relationship at all. SearchLight was a secret and must remain so.

The influence she held would make most magical creatures bow in submission. Jack, being merely human, was suitably impressed. And although as yet not cowed, he was too fond of his life to waste it needlessly. Not that Agent Weinberg had killed anyone. Recently.

Jack took a deep breath in through his nose as the limousine pulled up to the curb. He’d been commanded to take this limo and the implicit service of a driver, and although he hadn’t enjoyed it particularly, he was glad that he hadn’t needed to find a place to park in downtown Washington, DC. So, unsure if he was supposed to tip the driver but wanting to show his appreciation, he stepped around to the driver’s side after the car was parked at the curb and offered the person behind the wheel, whom, his telepathic sense, told him wasn’t human, ten dollars.

“Would you be trying to bribe me to take you home, Agent Sowerby?”

Jack saw the humor in the green eyes turned up to his and smiled. “Never in life,” he told the Irish-sounding sprite or Faery or leprechaun. Damn, sometimes he wished for a werewolf’s sense of smell so he’d know the magical creatures around him at once.

“You’re a good man, Agent Sowerby. Don’t let her bully you now.” And with that, he winked and rolled up his window. Jack stepped around the car to the sidewalk and watched the limo drive away.

“Hey there.” The voice was soft, lightly accented, and full of a syrupy, sarcastic undertone that put Jack’s hackles up. He turned more slowly than he could have, wanting to appear older and so less threatening. He gazed at the three people facing him and saw they were all armed.

He was aware of others watching from the doorway of the restaurant but knew they wouldn’t intercede unless it became obvious he couldn’t handle himself. That was one thing about Agent Weinberg he didn’t like much. She believed in the “sink or swim” philosophy.

The woman who’d spoken was smiling in a particularly condescending way. “Got a handout for me?” She twirled the knife in her right hand as she reached out with her left for the ten spot Jack still held.

Jack offered it, keeping a good distance from her, forcing her to step forward to take the bill. He was aware of the other two moving to flank him. He disliked using his telepathic sense against what he considered to be defenseless people, magical or mundane, and yet he wouldn’t risk his own life to preserve theirs. “I suggest you take this and be on your way,” he said softly, putting a slight psychic push into the words. He blanketed the area with his calming presence, lacking the ability to focus on more than two people at once. Both of the men who’d been flanking him stopped. One of them shook his head but the other was definitely under Jack’s control.

“Back off,” Jack said and watched the woman lower her knife a little.

She snatched at the bill and her knife hand flicked upward.

Jack dropped the ten spot and caught her wrist. The knife’s blade skidded across the waterproof material of his trench coat. He forced her to drop the knife as he said, “Go away.”

The man under his control turned and fled. But the other lunged at Jack. Yanking the woman close, Jack used her as a shield. The other man’s blade slid between her ribs. He swore, stumbling back, and lost his grip on his knife. As he turned to flee, Jack lowered the woman to the ground. He shouted, “Someone call nine-one-one.”

Someone joined him out on the sidewalk. It wasn’t Agent Weinberg. It wasn’t a SearchLight agent he knew. There was regal bearing in the other’s posture as he crouched beside Jack. “Let me heal her.”

Jack didn’t protest, although he did skate his telepathic sense outward to determine if this was a magical creature. The fact that he’d said “heal” rather than “help” argued for him not being human. He came into contact with an impenetrable psychic wall and winced as his telepathic sense bounced off. Well, there weren’t all that many humans who could resist even his most casual reach. Ergo, this was a magical creature.

Jack nodded and said, “Go ahead.” He retreated inside his own head and as he pulled out his cell phone, unwilling to trust to others to call for help, he watched the broad-shouldered male beside him spit into his hand and press the palm against the wound even as he pulled the knife free.

Dragon, Jack thought. Dragons could heal with their saliva or a blood exchange. But this wasn’t a dragon Jack knew.

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her website.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Shapeshifter Central

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Almost Human New Release Blitz #IndiGo

Title:  Almost Human

Author: Jo M. Airing

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 06/24/2025

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 71400

Genre: Paranormal, Romance, paranormal, urban fantasy, gay, lesbian, werewolf, vampire, magic user

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Description

Miles and Sammie haven’t seen each other since high school, and while they’re able to reconnect and pick up right where they left off, their happy reunion is short-lived when Miles is bitten and turned by a werewolf. They find themselves working through budding feelings as the supernatural world sinks its claws further into their fragile lives.

With the help of an Alpha who takes Miles in to help him learn his new powers, they uncover a winding plot to start a war between their two worlds. They find a few friends and even more enemies along the way as they go from one near death experience to the next. They just hope they can survive long enough to figure out their fragile newfound love.

Excerpt

Almost Human

Jo M. Aring © 2025

All Rights Reserved

Miles!”

The shout was drowned out by the sound of splintering wood, rumbling growls, and the feeling of his arm bending the wrong way as he landed on the old wood floor. Awesome. Really. This was just…the absolute best.

He groaned, wincing as he tried to get up, only for his arm to flare with pain from fingers to shoulder as soon as he moved it. “Dammit…” He looked up as footsteps approached, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. Crap. He was going to die. There’d been a lot of close calls, but this was it. Was he a little relieved? Maybe, if he was being honest with himself…

“Are you dead?” a familiar voice called, and he relaxed as a woman crouched through the hole he’d left in the cabin wall. She looked pretty battered from the fighting outside, black hair matted with blood by her temple, claw marks on her forearms and sides, one of her boots half bitten off, even. “Ooh, looks like you might be wishing you were—” She knelt beside him and blanched. “God, Miles. Your arm…”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah, I didn’t notice something was wrong with it. What’s the verdict, doc? Mild sprai—ah!” He yelped as she reset his arm, with little more warning than grabbing his bicep and forearm and twisting. He let out a strained breath through his teeth and glared up at her. “Your bedside manner sucks.”

She grinned. “Glad to know your sense of humor is still intact.” She looked away, and through his ringing ears Miles could hear the fighting outside getting worse, another voice yelling for help. She looked back down at him. “Listen, it’s getting rough out here. As soon as you heal up, you need to grab Sammie and get out of here.”

Miles shook his head. “What, but…no, I can help.” He grimaced as he got to his feet, cradling his arm against his stomach. “Just gimme five minutes, I’ll be good to go. You seriously can’t expect me to leave you alone out there.”

She shook her head. “I don’t, but you have to.” She gently pushed him back to the floor and settled him with a look, one he’d been on the receiving end of many, many times. “Miles, this is my mess. I don’t want either of you getting killed because of this. Now please, for once, just listen to me.”

He wanted to argue, but… “I… Fine.” He looked up at her as she started back out through the hole. “But don’t you get yourself killed, either. You better come back alive, all right!”

She glanced back over her shoulder at him one last time before Miles couldn’t see her anymore through the wall. He slumped back and looked down at his arm.

Pins and needles filled his fingertips before red-hot pain seared along his arm. Before his eyes, the bruising and lacerations melted away, the numb feeling in his fingertips fading with them. He clenched his fist a couple of times, just to make sure everything worked properly, before he got to his feet.

She had to be okay…right? She’d been at this for longer than he had; she knew how to handle herself in a fight.

Miles’s jaw clenched as he peered out of the cabin window to see at least a good couple of hundred hulking monsters outside, tearing through trees and one another, completely mindless, just thirsty for violence…

They weren’t going to make it, not like this. It was going to end here.

Miles looked down before he huffed out a breath. “At least I’ll have died fighting, right?” He stepped out and jolted as his foot passed through the Earth and kept going, and going and—

“Wake up!”

Miles jumped, then yelped as he rolled out of bed and slammed into the ground with a loud thud, earning a yell from his neighbor downstairs.

Where…what was…?

Oh.

“Wake up!”

“Shut up.” Miles untangled himself from his sheets and patted over his nightstand until he found his phone. He tapped the screen until it went quiet and slumped back to the floor. He really needed to change that.

“—les?”

Miles blinked an eye open and glanced about. He didn’t even know what time it was, or the day. Did he have something planned today? He could look at his phone to check but…sleep.

“Miles, yo, you up?”

“No,” Miles mumbled into the floor. Then the voice finally clicked in his tired brain. Sammie? But Sammie was halfway across the country.

“Miles, I swear, if you are still asleep, I’m gonna just leave. Pretty sure I can hang out with your roommate if you—”

“Ah!” Miles yelled, jumping from the floor and immediately slipping on the sheet and catching himself with a loud bang against the wall. “Dude, one sec! What the hell are you doing here?” He threw open his door and rushed out to see, waiting in his living room and looking just a little bit jet-lagged… “Sammie.”

Sammie laughed, standing from the couch and holding his arms out. “How am I doing here, huh?”

Miles shook his head and ran across the apartment to hug his best friend. It’d been years, it felt like, since he’d seen him. “Shut up, you’re so annoying.” He sighed as Sammie snickered. Sammie squeezed Miles back before pushing him away and straightening his glasses as he looked around Miles’s apartment. “Seriously, what are you doing here? I thought you were in college?”

“Dropped out,” Sammie answered nonchalantly, then let out an interested sound as he started toward the kitchen. “You mind if I make some coffee? The shop at the airport was closed because of some cleanup thing they needed to do so I’m desperate for some caffeine.”

Miles started to answer when Sammie opened the cupboard to find an empty coffee container and the words died in his throat. “Oh. I guess not. Pete must’ve used the last this morning.”

Sammie snarled. “I knew he was a dick. I could sense it.” He threw the container on the counter. “Who the hell puts back an empty one like that? That’s just pure evil, dude. Seriously.”

“And who the hell raised you where you don’t put trash in the trash can?” Miles quipped, grabbing the container and wiping up the spilled leftover grounds into the bin. “In that case, if you can wait long enough for me to get dressed, you wanna head out? I know a place that has some pretty good drinks.”

Sammie smirked. “Are you asking me out?”

Miles rolled his eyes. “You wish. Gimme a sec.”

“Wear something blue. It’ll compliment your eyes.”

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Jo M Aring is based in Kansas City, working in mental health by day, plunking away on her many works-in-progress by night. She is a moderately loud but supremely proud lesbian, who dabbles in D&D, video games, and whatever sparks her serotonin.

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To Defend a Damaged Duke New Release Blitz #IndiGo

Title:  To Defend a Damaged Duke

Series: Regency Rossingley, Book Two

Author: Fearne Hill

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 06/17/2025

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 76700

Genre: Historical Romance, historical romance, gay, UK, aristocracy, rich man/poor man, second chance romance, hurt-comfort, humorous, slow burn, reunited, opposites attract, scoundrels, brothel owner, horses, horse racing, scheming ingenues

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Description

Benedict Fitzsimmons, the reclusive fourteenth Duke of Ashington, nurses a secret desire for his own sex he’d much prefer nobody ever found out about. Indeed, having only ever given in to his urges as a youth—and with disastrous consequences—he never imagined they would. Preferring the company of his racehorses to people, Benedict spends most of his time working on estate matters, longing for a lost love he can never have.

When an anonymous letter threatening to expose Benedict lands in his lap, he’s shocked to the core. He doesn’t have any enemies; why would anyone want to destroy him? Terrified, and with his family’s impeccable reputation at stake, Benedict joins forces with loyal friend, the Earl of Rossingley, to track down the culprit.

Risen from poverty and with a sordid past he’d rather forget, Tommy Squire has a mind dedicated to growing his business ventures and a heart shaped from stone. When the man who once broke it in a life-changing betrayal requests Tommy’s help to avoid a scandal, he finds himself embroiled in a daring scheme to bring down a blackmailer. As their plot unfolds, Tommy realises it’s more than his former lover he’s endeavouring to protect, it’s his battered heart.

This second book in the Rossingley Regency romance series turns to friends of the fourteenth earl of Rossingley, Lando Duchamps-Avery, who once again has a hand in the shenanigans set in London’s wealthy Ton society. This book can be read as a standalone.

The following excerpt contains material suitable only for readers 18+.

Excerpt

To Defend a Damaged Duke

Fearne Hill © 2025

All Rights Reserved

London, 1813

At the back of the fruit and veg market in Convent Garden, a showman scraped a living. Every Tuesday and Friday, for more years than Tommy Squire had been alive. Same patch, same old rickety stall, same old rickety routine. Same anticlimactic finale. Declaring himself the world’s greatest magician, he’d hold aloft a playing card, purse his wrinkled, whiskery lips, and pretend to blow the spots off it. Tommy had watched him fumble the cards up his sleeve hundreds of times; seen him drop them on occasion too. And yet, on his mother’s grave, even as he wriggled a grubby knave down from his elbow to his wrist, the old sot still swore it was magic.

Tommy was reminded of that showman whenever the lordling’s black eyes, like two jet pearls, fluttered closed. Usually, the memory came seconds after the lordling’s throat made a helpless little whine, speaking its own language, directly into Tommy heart. It heralded the shortest sliver of time before he spilled into Tommy’s mouth and then pressed his lips against Tommy’s, tasting himself on them. Whispering sweet nonsense.

Those were the times Tommy remembered that old showman and his frayed cards, and it was only years later he understood what he meant. The daft sod had spun the story to himself so many times, believing in the magic of it, he ended up fooling himself.

*

“Our young lordling’s here, Tommy. Waiting in the best room.” Ma Duggan’s expression soured, matching the sallow hue of her downturned sneer. “Taken off upstairs already to get hisself ready. He’s asked for you.”

Fancying himself as a bit of an actor—he had to be in this business if he wanted paying right—Tommy pretended not to notice young Dickie flouncing out of the parlour. Nor Sidney’s jealous sulk. After all, who could blame them? The handsome lordling had caught everyone’s eye.

“I’ll be there when I’ve finished me tea. Won’t hurt him to wait a minute or two.”

Tommy could control his face, keep it blank. And his voice flat. But the mad thumping in his chest? Not a chance. No more than he could prevent the spirited rush of joy to his head, nor the twitching of his prick. Not when his beloved raven-haired beauty impatiently paced six feet above his head.

He carried up a jug of ale, not pausing to check himself in the glass hung at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t need to; Tommy’s pretty looks hadn’t waned since he examined them last. Dress him in a corset and stays, and Sidney declared he could work alongside the girls in the bawdy house on the corner. He scratched at the door, thrice, his pulse hammering.

“Tommy. At last. I was growing quite weak with want.”

Already, the lordling had removed his hat and coat, all the better for Tommy to admire his raven locks curling over his stiff collar. Unfastening his cravat with an urgent flourish, he was as eager as Tommy, more so, if the swelling in his breeches was any measure. They were of an age, the raven and Tommy—Tommy eighteen years young to the raven’s seventeen. Yet both so sure.

“My lord.” In the demure fashion he’d perfected, Tommy bobbed his head. The lordling blushed with delight. He relieved Tommy of the laden tray, and his plump mouth twisted into a smile. His hooded eyes, dark as night, latched onto Tommy’s.

“Afterwards with this, Tommy. My…my need for you can wait no longer.”

The best room wasn’t much to crow about. Nothing but a slender bed with a mean pillow, worn sheets, and a wooden chair upon which his handsome raven had tossed his coat. Around a water pitcher, his paying guest’s silk cravat lay unfurled like a banner. Tommy’s threadbare neckcloth joined it.

“Then you must have at me, my lord.” Behind his ribs, his soft heart trembled. “I am yours.”

In pulled up undershirts and pushed down breeches, they tussled on the bed. A pair of kittens let loose in the sunshine. Tommy kissed his raven on the mouth, the only madge he’d ever kissed, but then none of the other madges tasted so sweet. Or returned his kisses with such unmatched desire.

“Tommy,” the lordling groaned as Tommy’s hand found his heavy cock. Already, his smooth fingers gripped Tommy’s more modest member with a familiarity borne of a summer of snatched rendezvous in this simple, private chamber. “Want you,” he sighed, his promise slipping over Tommy like satin. “Forever.”

That first release, as always, came blessedly fast. A race, a relief, a ritual. And if Tommy let his mind go there, it was an unhappy reminder of his true purpose—to let the raven pay for Tommy’s clever hand, and handsomely too. The prettiest youth in the house must pleasure him as he saw fit. That the lordling only ever asked for the plainest of pleasures, and that he pleasured Tommy in return, that he whispered words of affection and held Tommy in his arms as they dozed awhile afterwards, were transactions they kept to themselves.

“Alas, I have but a few more minutes,” the lordling said, wiping Tommy tenderly. Dropping the cloth to the dusty floor, he scooped him up against his chest. “Mama and Grandmama are conducting the serious business of purchasing hat ribbons at Madame Bellevue’s. I am to join them. Apparently”—and at this, he blessed Tommy with a wicked grin—“I am in dire need of two new cravats.”

Tommy fumbled for the one so hastily discarded earlier and pretended to examine it, rubbing the fine fabric between finger and thumb.

“Goodness, yes. This is so last season,” he drawled in an approximation of the lordling’s own cultured vowels, making the other laugh. A most joyful sound, Tommy wanted to capture it and pin it like a moth.

The lordling caught the length of silk as Tommy tossed it aside. Then, easily, because he was so much bigger than Tommy, he rolled him onto his back. Taking Tommy’s slim wrist above his head, the lordling turned it over and pressed his lips to the thin skin, tracing the fragile tangle of blue veins with his tongue as if a path leading to his wildest dreams.

“You dare mock me, Master Tommy?” His scolding was ruined by an escaping giggle. “Then I shall punish you by tying you to the bed. With last season’s cravat, too; oh, the shame of it.”

Pouting, Tommy fluttered his eyelashes. With his fair curls and eyes the docile blue of a china doll, he was a picture of innocence. “That is no punishment at all, my lord.”

“Don’t be too hasty, Tommy.” The lordling wound a loop of cloth around Tommy’s wrist, playfully pulling it tight. “I haven’t yet outlined my plans for when I have you all tied up and at my mercy.”

Anything. You can do anything.

He kissed Tommy’s mouth. “I shall tease you, relentlessly,” he murmured, his tongue stealing Tommy’s breath. “Starting here.”

With his wrist now secured to the bedstead, Tommy tugged a little, sighing with pleasure as lips ghosted along his jaw. Groaning, the lordling buried his face into Tommy’s neck.

“Why do you always taste so divine, Tommy?”

Tommy rolled his hips, his prick hard for his lover once more. “Perhaps because I was made especially for you.”

The lordling leaned up onto an elbow. Solemnly, he studied Tommy. “I do believe you were.” A flush crept up his neck. They could stare at each other all day and never grow tired of the view.

“You were saying,” Tommy prompted, his need growing. “Something about doting on me until I spend again?”

His raven grinned, showing all his beautiful teeth. “Yes! And I shall make it my life’s work.”

Warm fingertips glided up Tommy’s thigh as the lordling came back to himself. “We shall grow old together, you and I. And I shall pass the years teasing you endlessly. Each morning, I shall touch you like this, everywhere but here.” The tip of his thumb tapped the head of Tommy’s swollen prick. “Until I have you begging for me.” Again, his black eyes lifted to gaze adoringly into Tommy’s. “As, hourly, you have me begging for you.”

Lain over Tommy like a thick blanket, the lordling’s body was supple and smooth. If God chose to take Tommy in that moment, he would thank Him kindly and consider it a life well lived. As they deepened the kiss, the lordling’s hips ground into Tommy’s. One day soon, Tommy decided, he’d suggest more; his empty hole craved it, a topic they had yet to broach. Sometimes, Tommy wondered if his lover even knew that was a thing men like them could do. He would explain it, then take the youth’s innocence as tenderly as if it were his own first time.

Soft lips melded as they lost themselves to love. The lordling rubbed himself against Tommy, his teases forgotten. His eyes shuttered closed, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, the alabaster skin of his cheeks glistened with heat. He was close; they both were. Slipperiness built between their bodies, and with his one untethered hand, Tommy clasped the lordling’s tight buttock.

“I lov—” the raven began.

And never finished.

Cut off by a holler from below. Rattling Tommy’s soul like a musket blast.

“Raid,” Sidney screeched. “Everyone out! Raid!”

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Fearne Hill lives deep in the southern British countryside with three untamed sons, varying numbers of hens, a few tortoises, and a beautiful cocker spaniel. When she is not overseeing her small menagerie, she enjoys writing contemporary romantic fiction. And when she is not doing either of those things, she works as an anesthesiologist.

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A Flash of Golden Fire New Release Blitz #IndiGo

Title:  A Flash of Golden Fire

Series: The Arrow and the Flame, Book One

Author: AE Lister

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 06/03/2025

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 337 PAGES

Genre: Historical Fantasy, action/adventure, age gap, BDSM, pirates, sailors, hurt/comfort, magic/magic-user, menage, foul-mouthed bird

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Description

Twenty-two-year-old Simon White begs for a place on Captain Dinesh Martin's pirate ship, the Arrow. When he proves hilariously inadequate at most tasks, he finds himself in the captain's quarters as cabin boy, housekeeper, and bed warmer.

Captain Martin used to be a British naval officer, until he became disenchanted with the hypocrisy, racism, and classism of the institution and embarked on a life of piracy. He runs an organized and efficient vessel and prides himself on the men with whom he surrounds himself. He is esteemed and admired, and he gives them as good a life as they've ever known.

But Simon has more than a few surprises up his sleeve, including some frightening powers, and Dinesh learns that sometimes a pretty appearance and amenable disposition can fool even an experienced man of the seas.

The following excerpt contains mature subject matter, making it suitable only for readers 18+.

Excerpt

A Flash of Golden Fire

AE Lister © 2025

All Rights Reserved

Salvation

Port Royal, 1781

The sea smelt of salt and death.

The bustling port city on the southern shores of Jamaica ran with booty and blood. The Brethren of the Coast or, more familiarly, men of dubious employ, otherwise known as pirates, came to the city to trade the goods they had amassed at sea in questionable circumstances. Of course, there was honour among thieves and all of that, but there were also short tempers and ravenous appetites for more than food and good ale.

Food and ale…

I licked my cracked lips and huddled deeper into the threadbare jacket I’d pulled off a washing line an hour earlier. It was the only clean thing on me, in fact. My other garments were stained and filthy, like my frigid skin.

So far, this coastal town hadn’t fulfilled its imaginary promise of a fresh and welcome start. I’d left the town of my birth to embark on a new life, thinking that my luck might be better in Port Royal.

Born in Spanish Town to missionary parents, I had been orphaned at twelve, following a calamity that had left them dead, and I was lucky enough to have been taken in by a friend of my mother’s, who saw to it to educate and care for me as best he could. My life was decent, though dull, until the age of twenty-one when he died of yellow fever, and I was forced to look to my own means for survival. I should have found my own way before that advanced age, but Carago had enjoyed looking out for me, since his wife had died in birthing his only son, who had lived for three days before following her.

Perhaps my childlike attitude and spoilt sense of entitlement were due to Carago’s fatherly indulgences, although innocence had flown from me long before his passing.

So far, in Port Royal, I’d been attacked at knifepoint by a fearsome fellow the night after I’d arrived and also robbed of all my belongings but for a meagre allotment of coin that I’d hidden in my boot. He’d left me with a sore shoulder, a black eye, and a newfound respect for, and fear of, strange men.

In Spanish Town, my encounters with strange men had been more cordial, although nothing I would ever have described to Carago, who, to my bad luck, had held a similar attitude to those of my father and wider society. An unruly mop of red hair and a face full of freckles had ensured me a boyish countenance that I’d likely retain into middle age—God willing I got there to enjoy the benefit. Men liked the look of me, to be frank, and I hadn’t lacked for companionship, although only in brief, physical bursts that had still proved rewarding.

I’d heard of the Brethren of the Coast—supposedly a breed of men who’d taken to a life of piracy with a different kind of philosophy, holding themselves to a higher standard than the average swashbuckling vagabond. If these visionaries did, in fact, exist, and if I could find one of them and beg for a place aboard his ship, perhaps I could prove my worth and gain passage off this pisspot of an island. A life at sea was a much better prospect than one on land at this point, and I was ready for an adventure.

I ducked into a tavern called The Penny Whistle to get out of the rain that now came in torrents, but not before I became soaked to the skin and chilled further. Quite a sorry thing to be so adrift at twenty-two, bedraggled and wet and without prospects.

The tavern was warm, at least, and nobody turned me out. A fire roared and crackled in a large hearth, in front of which a motley group of strangely attired men were seated at tables, their attention captured by an imposing figure who stood with his elbow on the mantle as he regaled them with animated voice and gestures.

I slunk to a stool by the bar and sat, my stomach cramping as the scent of cooking food filled my nostrils. I soon found myself as transfixed as the others.

The man was everything a pirate captain ought to be.

He was of indefinable race—likely a mixture of at least two. He was exceptionally handsome in a way far beyond his physical appearance, which was unique and appealing. And he was an excellent orator, regaling his audience with honeyed words and dramatic cadence.

He wore the jacket of a British officer, although the item had seen years of wear, and the badges had been removed, or torn from the cloth. The garment looked fine on him and gave him a ruffled distinction. His shirt and breeches were navy issue as well. He looked more put together than his crew, who sported the mismatched garb of unaligned men of the sea. He had the accent of a British officer and the elocution of a magistrate.

The serving wench made her presence known, approaching the captain, laughing in the way women do when they want a man to think of them fondly. But as far as I could tell, her charms weren’t working upon him.

The crew was another matter.

“Oy, my darling, come here and perch on me knee awhile,” a heavyset fellow suggested, leering at the young woman and waggling his eyebrows.

“Now, now, Mister Denbrooke. What would your wife think?” the captain said with an indulgent smile.

“My wife, Captain Martin,” Mr Denbrooke said, “is probably spreading her ample thighs for the butcher and the baker at the moment. So she wouldn’t care a damn.”

Captain Martin. I’d been right in my supposition.

“Oh, go on,” the girl said and flounced to the bar where she frowned and pretended to be unaffected by the captain’s disinterest.

Everyone laughed and the captain grinned wider.

“Never was able to keep her satisfied,” Mr Denbrooke continued. “I’ve only got one cock, and she likes to have three at once.”

The men laughed and Captain Martin nodded.

“Hmm. Well, I can’t fault your wife for that,” he said.

The men laughed harder and some even hooted, and my foggy brain couldn’t keep up.

I concentrated on dealing with the hunger pangs that assailed me and rehearsed ways I could approach this formidable man who took up space with such entitled ease.

“Hello, my name is Simon White. I’d like a position on your ship.” Or, perhaps I should say, “Simon White here. You gotta place for me on board?” or “I’m strong and quick—when I’m fed, at least—Are you taking on crew?”

None of these were likely to get me what I needed, so I sat there, suffering, whilst they shoveled beef stew into their gobs and tore up whole loaves of bread to devour amongst themselves. My mouth became dry as I watched. What I wouldn’t do for an ale or even a paltry glass of water.

There were things I’d thought about doing. Things that men paid dearly for in the back alleys and the whorehouses. But I couldn’t bear the thought of trading an activity I enjoyed so much for food and drink or coin. I hadn’t gotten to a point so desperate to fall into that. If I could only get onto Captain Martin’s ship, I wouldn’t have to contemplate a life of whoredom.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

AE Lister is a Canadian non-binary author with a vivid imagination and a head full of unique and interesting characters. They write explicit, adult LGBTQ+ romance. They also write much less graphic Young Adult LGBTQ+ romance under Alison Lister.

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The Night Menagerie New Release Blitz #IndiGo

Title: The Night Menagerie

Series: The Pact of the Veil, Book One

Author: Kathryne Lentes

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 04/15/2025

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 25400

Genre: Paranormal Romance, Romance, paranormal, urban fantasy, lesbian, trans, shapeshifters, police detective, disappearance, role-playing game

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Description

Sah Williams is used to navigating the fantastical worlds of her own creation, but when her sister disappears, she is thrust into a world of magic and shapeshifters beyond anything she would have put to page. The only things she might be able to count on are a mysterious detective who she suspects has their own agenda and her novel’s main character’s voice whispering her advice.

Excerpt

The Night Menagerie 

Kathryne Lentes 

© 2025 All Rights Reserved 

 Chapter One 

 I woke to the sound of a person screaming. I sat bolt upright in bed and looked around, trying to remember where I was. There was no one else in the room, and I realized it had been me who had screamed. My heart beat like a jackhammer and I clutched the blanket to myself. 

Instinctually, I reached out to the right side of the bed, but there was no one there. There had not been anyone there for almost six months, and most nights, I had no problem remembering that. Robert had been a comfort in the darkness, able to quiet the nightmares I had. Nisha, my sister, had loved him for that. He could also make you laugh, no matter how hard times were. 

Everyone loved Robert—everyone but me, I guess, or at least I could not love him in the way he needed me to. I was most at home in solitude and did not really believe in just one person, one love, for the rest of a person’s life. 

 I reached out and ran my hands along my shoulder; the pain had been so intense in the dream when the beast had torn a chunk of flesh, I half expected to find blood on my fingers. I looked around at the plain white walls barely visible in the moonlight and took several long, slow breaths, forcing myself to calm down. Slowly, my heart began to beat slower, and my mind distanced itself from the nightmare and came back to reality. 

Okay, let’s start with the first question: where was I? The room was small and sparsely furnished. I could hear the hustle and bustle of the street outside, even at this hour, and remembered this was my new apartment. I had not decided if I would stay in New York after my breakup. 

There were a lot of memories here, good and bad, and it was where Dominique lived. Dominique Fortune, an international thief and woman of mystery, is a character I created for my novels. Dominique had given me everything I had dreamed of when I was a kid. She lived in New York so, as soon as I could afford it, I moved here, even though I have always felt my real home is Saint Louis. 

Some people are method actors; I think I am a method author. I had to get into all the details and experiences of a character if the book was going to feel real when I was writing it. I reached out for the notebook I kept by the side of my bed and tried to remember the dream that had shocked me awake. That notebook had served as a constant stream of inspiration, and I wrote down almost every one of my dreams, from the scary to the spicy. This dream was different somehow, and it seemed to be fading quickly; the only thing reverberating in my head was the howl of an animal and that searing moment of pain. 

 I involuntarily reached out again to the untouched right side of the bed. I knew I could have been using the whole bed, but even after six months, the right side was still Robert’s side. Not sure if the loss of the relationship had hit me so hard because of what it said about us or what it said about me, I lay back and closed my eyes to dispel thoughts of him and tried to return to sleep, but when I did the fear rose inside me like the beast was waiting for me in my dreams. 

I gave up and looked at my phone, but it was dead. The clock on the wall said 4:45 a.m. Well, it was too late for warm milk and cookies and too early for a shot of whiskey and a beer, so I figured I might as well go for a jaunt. 

 I got up out of bed and pulled out some sweats and a baggy T-shirt from the top drawer. Before I met Robert, my choice of outfits had been sexier, but now all I wanted was something that would not shred when I did a jump or tumble.

 Dominique had taken up parkour. Thus, so had I, joining lock picking, mastering security systems, combat driving, and generally being sneaky in a series of skills I had acquired to make the novels feel more real. Parkour or free running was all about trying to cover a distance from one point to the next in the most efficient way; usually that included flips, rolls, and jumps using any piece of available architecture to maintain your momentum. 

 “If you’re not moving forward, you’re moving backward.” As I said it out loud, I could hear my dad speaking. It was something he picked up in the service from some drill sergeant and passed on to us. I’m not sure what Dad would have said about my current career. His life had been built on service, and all I did was entertain. 

 I had grown up as an army brat traveling with my father. He went from infantry to the rangers, to OCS, and finally to a battalion command. It had been a long road and my only companion had been my twin sister Nisha. I allowed myself a smile that turned bittersweet. Whenever I thought of my sister, my thoughts naturally went to our mother. She had died in childbirth, and the only thing we had to remember her by was our names, Nisha and Sah; they were small pieces of her—well, our—Nepal ancestry. 

My parents had met when my dad had been serving in East Asia, and from all the stories he told, it had been true love at first sight. After she had died, he refused to be apart from us except when he was deployed in a forward position. He even put special effort into allowing us to develop our own identities and never dressed us the same or pigeonholed us into being like each other, except when it came naturally. Nisha was more of a girly girl and loved fancy clothes, while I was more of a tomboy and could usually be found halfway up a tree or on a rooftop. 

 He also decided at an early age to teach us how to take care of ourselves. We both learned general hand-to-hand combat, but he also gave each of us specialized instruction. Nisha was trained on how to handle knives and blades of assorted sizes, while I was taught how to shoot. When I was young, it had always seemed strange that my father had split things up between us, with him constantly trying for us to be a family, but I soon realized that it provided time for each of us to be with him individually. Also, it meant any of the boys who had tried to go too far in high school had an unpleasant surprise waiting for them. 

 We did have one thing that united us: no matter where we went, we loved stories. It started when we would constantly ask our father to tell the story of how he and our mother had met and their courtship. Then, when Dad was deployed, we would tell each other those stories, and it soon grew into us creating new stories all our own.

 We would while away the hours working on huge, convoluted sagas filled with action and romance. Nisha would come up with a grandiose flight of fantasy, and I would populate it with the day-to-day details that would make the story believable. I was still focused on my memories to get rid of the aftereffects of the nightmare when I climbed out onto the fire escape. A moment later, I was on top of the building and sprinting across the heights, leaping, and rolling from one elevated position to another, hopefully looking like a cross between Jackie Chan and Spider-Man. 

 I had been a gymnast in high school, but this was so much more intense, and after a couple of months in the gym, I was hooked. I had replaced my daily jog with a run over the rooftops in my neighborhood. As I sped through the city, I saw a huge divide looming in front of me. The gap between the buildings was large, but nothing I had not done with pads on the floor. I dug my heels in and propelled myself faster and faster, but as I got closer, a little voice spoke up inside my head.

 You’re not Dominique. That is a long way down. You can’t do this. Contrary to what most people believed, being too gutsy was not the greatest danger to a free runner; the biggest threat was hesitation. The moment you were not confident, a person got hurt, and suddenly, my attention was diverted. 

 I panicked and slammed on the brakes, breaking into a slide. My feet kept moving on the gravel. A moment later, I felt air under me. I started to tumble downwards. As I fell, I saw out of the corner of my eye a clothesline between the buildings. I had no thoughts, just a blind instinct to reach out my hands. I grabbed the rope, the impact causing the line to cut into my fingers, but I held on; for one long moment, my descent was stopped. I took a deep breath as I hung there, then the hook holding the rope to the far building pulled out of the wall. I swung backward, desperately keeping a grip on the rope, and slammed into the wall. The impact smacked the wind out of me, and I tumbled onto the fire escape.

 “What the fuck are you doing out there?” A guy looked at me with a menacing glare and turned back to cooking his breakfast. 

 You gotta love Brooklyn. If I did this in Hell’s Kitchen, I would probably get some yuppie calling the cops. Brooklyn, a little profanity and everything is forgotten. 

I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the protest of my body, and swiftly went down the fire escape to the street before the person I woke up decided I was a burglar. I limped my way back to my apartment. 

As I walked in, I grabbed my mail. There was a package wrapped in brown paper from my sister in there. I threw the rest of the mail on the nearby counter and ripped into the packaging. It was a thick book with a note stuck to the front. 

 Hey, sis, I’ve been playing this new game and thought you might like it. I know you don’t normally do the DND thing, but you might find the world-building cool. Let me know what you think. Hmm.

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Meet the Author

Kathryne Lentes has been writing stories as long as she could hold a pen in her hand. She is a transwoman who, when not working on her own projects, operates Paper Phoenix Ink, a blog showcasing queer creators. She is currently living in Saint Louis with her wife, two cats, and a pile of science fiction and fantasy books.

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